


Anam Cara

by lunadesangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [1]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunadesangre/pseuds/lunadesangre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miguel goes looking for a different fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anam Cara

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mswriter07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mswriter07/gifts).



> Wish #5, Request 1, of the 2011 Oz Magi.  
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan/Miguel  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: Miguel goes looking for a different fix.  
> Canon/AU/Either: AU; out of prison if you can but will take what your imagination comes up with.  
> Special Requests: Smut welcome. No Character Death or non-con.  
> Story/Art/Either: Story
> 
> I _have_ done research for this – but theoretical diggings always fail when faced with real live experience, so please, _please_ , take this more as some kind of fairy tale than anything else.

By the time he’s old enough to legally drink, Miguel’s already pretty much tried every drug there is. LSD’s the best, but like everything else in his life, after a while, it becomes boring. Some people have grand purposes, great ambitions – but Miguel’s never been able to find any. He goes from one distraction to another: nothing really makes him happy, so he chases piece after piece of temporary happiness. Figures fake and fabricated, however empty, is better than nothing.

It’s not even like _his life_ is completely empty: he’s got a girl (that he doesn’t love), friends (that he doesn’t really like), a gang (that doesn’t really accept him), a family (sort of), and a great car (how the fuck does that count?). It _should_ be enough, but it’s not. Miguel doesn’t even know what the fuck he wants – all he knows is that it’s not what he has.

Hence, the drugs.

*

Drugs are fun really, sometimes even more than sex (and Miguel knows plenty about that: it’s another form of drug, after all): sometimes, it’s like he could almost grasp the key to some long lost mystery, get the answer to a question so old no one remembers how to articulate it. Like he could access another plane of existence, where everything would make sense. Things like: why does he live? Why does _anyone_ live?

When he’s stupid enough to spew it out loud – head in the fucking clouds – Maritza tells him there’s something wrong with his brain. And she goes back on to that new skirt or this brand bag or those cute shoes she saw today with her friends, and wouldn’t she look _fabulous_ in them? And Miguel always numbly nods, thinking: _so fucking meaningless_. (He fucks her until she shuts up, but even that is becoming boring.)

*

He wants a change. He just doesn’t know _what_ , or _how_.

*

 _How_ comes to him in the street. It’s autumn, fucking freezing and way too windy; he’s fought with Maritza again, doesn’t want to go to the same fucking bars have the same fucking bullshit talks with the same fucking guys, and just hops in the first bus he sees, stays until the final stop, and ends up in a part of town he’s never been in before. It’s quiet and deserted and full of trees and little suburban houses. He takes the first right turn and then the first left one, and it literally hits him in the face: a slightly battered flier for some sky-diving thing.

Miguel _would_ like to believe that sometimes, things happen for a reason.

He checks it out.

*

Sky-diving, it turns out, is even better than LSD. It’s riding on the wind and falling in the sky and the ground’s a tiny thing growing more and more huge. It’s dangerous and exhilarating, and fuck, Miguel’s never felt so _alive_.

He _loves_ it.

*

And of course, it’s addictive. But months go by and he doesn’t tire of it. He starts paying more attention to the scenery though, and after a while, realizes he wants to see more of the world like that. Jump in different places.

What he _does_ tire of is everything else in his life, all the petty everyday bullshit, all the petty gang fights, all the stupid expectations weighting him down. He doesn’t have to fucking prove himself to anyone – he sees that now. Alleluia.

*

Blood in, blood out – but he doesn’t care: he’s had worse, and this time it’s really worth it. _Freedom_. He only has a vague plan: it involves a passport, a backpack and a map, and doing shit jobs when he needs to. There’s a whole world out there.

His Mama calls him loco – he tells her life’s more fun this way. She’s tough, Miguel knows she’ll be alright. Maritza cries – Miguel tells her to find another guy. Like she’ll have any trouble with that.

He hitchhikes out of town and leaves everything behind.

*

Amazingly, it works.

It works so well he even manages to get a license, somewhere south before the Mexican frontier. There’s no full-time instructor jobs anywhere around though, and he’s not sure he wants to settle down yet anyway, so he crosses the border and goes farther south, from job to job, visiting.

It’s actually easy: there’s lots of American tourists looking for a thrill in South America’s vacation spots, but not many perfectly bilingual instructors with an American license. Everyone is always happy to see him – which is a very new, very fucking pleasant experience.

Plus, he gets to jump with cute girls in his arms.

*

(Though really, whether it’s girls throwing themselves at him or his coworkers wanting to talk, it’s all quick, meaningless superficial relationships. Other human beings, it seems, are all the same.)

*

He skips a winter: it’s spring in Bolivia by the time he gets there. He slowly makes his way south though Argentina, crossing the border to Chile after Patagonia, to Tierra del Fuego. It’s every bit as beautiful as he imagined it would be – and a bit more, really. He goes as south as he possibly can, and spends _hours_ staring at the sea.

The end of the earth. And yet, there’s still so much more to see.

*

But it’s funny, how life goes, really: of the billions of people in the world and all the places Miguel could have met any of them in...it has to be a skinny white guy sitting on a rock facing the sea at the end of the world. Cross-legged, back straight, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees – like he’s doing _yoga_ or something, and Miguel’s never been good at containing curiosity.

His name is Ryan – or at least, that’s the name he gives Miguel, no last name, just a wide, rather mischievous smile when Miguel asks, having given _his_ full name spontaneously. Green eyes, brown hair, slightly tattered clothes and freckled from the sun, with an American accent – though he insists he’s Irish.

They share a lukewarm meal of canned soup and beans, huddled against a rock to ward off the wind, and have an utterly insane, utterly awesome conversation on nature, life, and the mysteries of the universe. The pointlessness of urban jungles, leaving it all behind, and all the incredible places they’ve seen. If there’s such a thing as kindred spirits, Miguel has just found one. How much of a loner he’s been all his life doesn’t fully hit him until that point.

*

The night is short, but it’s really fucking cold. Still, they’re apparently both in the habit of trekking and sleeping outside in the middle of nowhere, and it doesn’t make sense not to settle next to each other to sleep.

*

“I’m fucking _cold_ ,” Miguel very nearly whines after a few minutes of shuffling in his bag trying to warm up – though he’s not really sure why he does. (It just feels good not to be alone. To be with someone who thinks like he does.)

“I heard once the best way to warm up in a sleeping bag was by getting naked –” Ryan starts, but Miguel cuts him off, looking at him like Ryan’s lost his mind.

“You’re shitting me, right? It’d be _worse_ if I was naked.”

“Naked with someone _else_ in the same bag, dumb-ass,” Ryan finishes with the patented glare of an annoyed school teacher.

“Yeah,” Miguel answers with his best infuriating smirk, “too bad there’s no chicks here.”

“Well, there’s always sea lions if you’re interested,” Ryan answers back, deadpan, only grinning with his eyes.

Miguel makes an utterly-disgusted face and they both crack up. Laughing _so hard_ it makes Miguel’s ribs hurt, curling up toward Ryan in helpless, uncontrollable laughter.

*

He’s not sure how it actually starts: one minute they’re side by side in their sleeping bags, really fucking close, grinning at each other while trying to catch their breath after such a laughing fit, and the next second they’re kissing – the urgent, desperate kind of kissing that involves tongues and teeth and hair-tugging, all hunger and need – and Miguel can’t figure out who moved first. Maybe they both did. Not that it matters – it feels too fucking good to stop.

Ryan has stubble of course, they both do, but Miguel doesn’t let that bother him: he’s left all his prejudices behind. So, that they’re both men doesn’t matter – not here, not now, perhaps not anymore as far as Miguel is concerned. At any rate, it sure doesn’t matter for two kindred spirits, not when doing nothing more than talking earlier already felt like touching each other’s souls.

When Ryan breaks off the kiss – gasping for breath, lips swollen and fingers buried in Miguel’s too long hair – to zip open his sleeping bag and fumble his shirt and sweater off, Miguel takes it for the clear invitation it is and joins him, both of them fighting the rest of their clothes off and huddling together in Ryan’s sleeping bag, Miguel’s opened one on top like a blanket, immediately back to kissing, stroking skin, legs tangling. Pressing close together, warm skin to warm skin, hard cock to hard cock, stealing too much of each other’s breath to have much left to moan.

Miguel’s functioning on basic, primal instinct – pure _need_ – ‘cause really, he’s never done anything with a man; whether Ryan has before or not is unclear – at any rate, he’s sure as fuck not being shy: he grips both their cocks together, _hard_ , stroking slow and intense, sucking Miguel’s tongue in his mouth, and makes an urgent, needy groan when Miguel’s hands clamp on his ass.

It’s all downright fucking _delicious_ , and the orgasm is absolutely _blinding_.

*

Miguel’s a quick learner, and a greedy fuck. They _drain_ themselves to sleep.

“There’s a volcano, in Maui, you can actually go down in,” Ryan sleepily informs him as he cuddles closer, but Miguel is too worn out to wonder if he’s saying that because of the temperature outside their cocoon or what.

*

Ryan’s gone when Miguel wakes up. With Miguel’s sleeping bag. Miguel checks all his stuff, but it’s the only thing missing – which he supposes makes sense, considering he’s still half-tangled in Ryan’s. Still, it doesn’t explain why Ryan left – or how he managed to do so without waking up Miguel. Must have been sneaky as hell.

*

Miguel leaves Tierra del Fuego with a slight ache of loss he doesn’t really want to consciously acknowledge – but day after day, week after week, it _grows_ , until it’s absolutely impossible to ignore.

The fact that Ryan’s sleeping bag smells like the man doesn’t help at all.

So, even though he thinks it’s completely insane, Miguel goes to Maui.

*

There’s only two trails going into Ryan’s volcano. Still, the possibility of them actually meeting again seems ridiculously low, and Miguel can’t help but feel like a complete fool, paying more attention to all the tall brown-haired white guys around than the landscape – looking for a _precise_ tall white guy with brown hair. Who might not even be there: it’s been months since Tierra del Fuego, so even _if_ it was a clue as to Ryan’s next stop, he’s probably long gone. The chances of the two of them somehow being in the same spot again at the same time is, well, infinitely small. It makes the ache so much worse thinking that.

But after all, maybe Miguel _is_ a fool. He finds a place to sleep and gives himself a few days. So what? He’s never wanted to see someone again this badly. He’s never gotten along with anyone this well and this fast, never felt so _alive_ with anyone, _ever_. So even if it’s a fool’s hope, he _needs_ to try.

*

Ryan finds him the day after, early afternoon, on the second trail Miguel takes. Finds him because he’s obviously been looking too: his whole face lights up, and he looks as happy to see Miguel again as Miguel is to see him. He’s clean-shaven this time, and wearing a stupid cowboy hat that would make Miguel laugh if he wasn’t feeling so ridiculously _happy_. They’re inches apart in only a few steps, and Ryan’s got such a fucking nice smile – it makes Miguel’s breath catch a little. Makes him want to kiss him, so very fucking badly, the ache suddenly changed to hunger.

But there’s a few people around, and though the way Ryan bites his lower lip and stares at Miguel’s mouth a second too long suggests he wants a kiss too, Miguel opts for a friendly hug instead. Ryan laughs when Miguel pats his shoulder before releasing him – when all Miguel wants to do is pull him closer.

Fuck, it’s dizzying, wanting someone this much.

*

Ryan plays guide the rest of the day, until sunset; he has all these little fun facts and anecdotes about the island and seems so natural in the role it makes Miguel ask if that’s actually what he does for a living – but Ryan is apparently determined to stay a mystery, and to only live in the here and now. He seems a bit regretful about it though, like it hurts on some deeper level, not to answer. So Miguel stops asking.

They find a deserted spot to watch the sunset, and yeah, it really is beautiful – but the way it turns strands of Ryan’s hair a slight golden-red when Miguel takes off that stupid hat to kiss him, the way Ryan smiles at him, green eyes shining in the golden light when Miguel cups his jaw...it’s a lot more so.

*

Night falls really fast, though in the light of an almost full moon it’s not really that dark – they’re too busy kissing to notice anything until Miguel lies down with Ryan straddling his lap and gets a sharp rock digging into his back. Rolling over puts another rock in _Ryan’s_ back, and they both laugh and relocate a few yards away, in a relatively rock-free area.

Miguel laughs as Ryan unrolls _his_ missing sleeping bag on the ground, zipping it open. “Good,” he says, opening Ryan’s to throw it on top and then crouching down facing him to help smooth it over, “you didn’t sell it. I like that thing.”

“I like it too,” Ryan tells him with that shit-eating grin of his, “it’s a lot better quality than mine. Warmer.”

It’s probably true – Miguel hasn’t noticed. He’s been too busy burying his nose in the thing every night and dreaming of wet kisses and naked skin, all the while stupidly trying to pretend he didn’t miss Ryan. Doesn’t matter. “You know,” he jokes, “if you really wanted to trade sleeping bags you could have just asked, instead of stealing mine while I was asleep. Though I suppose I should say thanks for not taking both and leaving me naked in the cold, uh?”

He really did mean it as a joke, but the second it leaves his mouth he knows it was the wrong thing to say: Ryan’s smile fades, though he tries to hide it. “I only need one,” he tries to joke back, “and you were _hogging_ mine.”

It begs the question of why he left – left _while Miguel was asleep_ – but Miguel clamps down on it.

Except it must be written in his eyes, because Ryan quietly says “I can’t stay.” It’s a low whisper, full of regrets, and immediately followed by an even quieter “I _can’t_ ,” very slightly broken, Ryan closing his eyes.

“Shh,” Miguel tells him, drawing him close to rest their foreheads together, unwilling to think about it, “it’s okay, baby, you can have my sleeping bag.”

Ryan laughs, sounding only slightly strangled, and Miguel kisses him again, chaste and sweet, then deepening it.

*

It’s not cold; they don’t have to huddle under covers. So Miguel takes full advantage and _looks_ as he slowly removes Ryan’s clothes. (He doesn’t know if Ryan’ll still be there in the morning; he wants to memorize every inch of him.)

Ryan’s very pale in the light of the moon, his tattoos standing out sharp. He has scars, on his chest and on his stomach, and Miguel kisses every single one of them as he lies Ryan back on their makeshift bed. Ryan makes appreciative sighs, fingers caressing Miguel’s scalp, and very nearly stops breathing when Miguel doesn’t stop kissing his way down and swallows Ryan’s cock instead.

Of course, he can’t take all of it, and he’s not stupid enough to try, but he sucks lightly on the head, teasingly slow, tongue tracing the slit, hands stroking the rest and fondling Ryan’s balls, and Ryan’s whole body shudders. It’s not bad at all – in fact, it’s quite good, that warm weight against his tongue, even the slightly bitter, salty taste. Ryan doesn’t try to thrust or anything, just lies there enjoying it, letting Miguel set the pace. He doesn’t make much noise, but shivers in Miguel’s grasp, unable to catch his breath, body arching. He tugs on Miguel’s hair trying to pull him off when he’s close, but Miguel’s stubborn, and he doesn’t do things halfway. He almost chokes a little though, not swallowing fast enough – but only a little, and it doesn’t dampen his ridiculously-proud-of-himself cocky grin at putting that satisfied, _awed_ look on Ryan’s face.

*

Ryan pulls him down to kiss him, tongue tangling with his, tugging Miguel closer until his body is covering Ryan’s. Miguel’s still clothed, but Ryan rucks his shirt up caressing his back, following his muscles, and it’s off in no time when Miguel pulls back to catch his breath. His cock’s fucking _throbbing_ ; he sits up to undo his belt, but Ryan fights his hands off and makes short work of his pants, pushing them down Miguel’s thighs with his underwear. He leaves a wet kiss down Miguel’s stomach – but hands on Miguel’s hips, facing Miguel’s cock, he hesitates.

It’s only for two breaths – two warm breaths from opened, moist lips, hitting Miguel’s cock, unconsciously teasing – but it’s enough to show that it’s very probably all pretty new to Ryan too. It’s enough to make Miguel stop him, tugging him up and kissing him, whispering against Ryan’s lips that he doesn’t have to do it.

It seems Miguel’s not the only stubborn one though, and Ryan’s a quick learner as well. With one hell of a fucking skilled tongue – and it turns out, next to no gag reflex. Or maybe it’s the downright submissive position Ryan has no qualms sucking off Miguel in that makes it easier, bowing low in front of him, swallowing around Miguel’s cock. Whatever it is, Miguel sees fucking _stars_ when he comes, and not the ones in the sky.

*

Ryan makes him lie down and takes the rest of his clothes off, then slides back up Miguel’s body to kiss him softly, smiling. Miguel deepens it, chasing his own taste deep in Ryan’s mouth.

They kiss and kiss and pet and have sex again, and again. It’s a long while before they’re finally tired enough to stop: Ryan’s addictive; and perhaps, addicted too.

*

There’s no random geographical hint as Ryan falls asleep this time; he just quietly tangles all their limbs together and buries his nose in Miguel’s neck, his breath so fucking warm against Miguel’s skin. Miguel doesn’t dare ask for one, and can’t seem to come up with one himself, but as he tugs Ryan impossibly closer, it hits him that perhaps Ryan’s passport might give him a clue. Like _an address_.

So when he’s sure that Ryan’s asleep, Miguel carefully disentangle himself from Ryan’s limbs and sneaks to Ryan’s backpack on the other side. He winces as he opens the zipper of the front pocket – as quietly as possible, but not noiselessly – but to Miguel’s relief, Ryan doesn’t wake up, though he does roll around. His passport is there behind several maps, half-caught in one. Miguel takes it out and tiptoes back to his backpack to get his flashlight, then several yards away, behind Ryan’s back, to read it.

It actually _is_ an Irish passport, though for some reason it’s trilingual – and while that’s Ryan’s picture inside, it’s in the name of a _Padraig Sheridan_ , two years older than Miguel and born and living in Dublin. Miguel memorizes the address, repeating it over and over again in his head as he puts Ryan’s passport back where he found it and returns to their makeshift bed, curling against Ryan’s back, still careful not to wake him – but unable to stop himself from leaving a butterfly-soft kiss to the center of that celtic cross tattoo.

*

In the morning, Ryan’s gone again, though this time with his own sleeping bag, since Miguel wakes up in his own. He tells himself he was expecting it to try to soothe the small burning ache in his chest a little, and he takes out his map of the world and digs in his backpack for a pen, to write down Ryan’s address on the Atlantic ocean right next to Ireland – even though there’s probably a very high chance that it’s completely fake.

*

He goes to Tierra del Fuego again, half to see it once more, half just in case Ryan went back too, but of course, Ryan’s not there. Which really only leaves one possibility, though Miguel doesn’t want to let himself hope too much. But hey, let whatever’ll happen happen is his new philosophy. Carpe diem, baby.

He goes back north through Chile – but from Mexico, he takes a plane to Spain instead of crossing the US border. It’s in the airport he gets the truth, actually: they have newspapers from probably half of the world, and in an American one, there’s a small article on _Escaped convict Ryan O’Reily still evading capture_.

It has mugshots, face and profile – and yeah, that’s _his_ Ryan, there’s no doubt about that in Miguel’s mind. It says shit like _caution_ and _dangerous_ – and it’s shit because Miguel _knows_ Ryan. So it doesn’t change a fucking thing: Miguel’s done his fair share of bad things too, he just never got caught for them. The only thing it proves is that Ryan actually did trust him with his first name – and liked him enough to risk getting caught, waiting for him in Maui.

The little something in his chest stops hurting so damn much.

*

He stays a couple of months in Spain, finding a few temporary jobs and exploring – but he’s really aiming for somewhere precise, so after a while, he hitchhikes up north, through France and England, and takes a ferry to cross the Irish Sea.

Ireland turns out to be the most free-spirited country he’s ever seen. Dublin, at least. Miguel gawks a bit at guys holding hands in the street, unconcerned and unnoticed, unbothered. Ryan’s apartment incredibly turns out to not only exist, but also to be rented by a guy matching Ryan’s name in his Irish passport, though it’s in a rather dubious building in a rather dubious part of town, and the grumpy landlord informs him it’s almost always empty.

Miguel figures he’ll wait and see; there’s plenty of stuff to see in Ireland anyway. When he finds an instructor job three weeks later, he goes back and slips the company’s flier in Ryan’s mailbox, with the _Escaped convict_ article folded up inside (minus the pictures, half for precaution in case the landlord decides to snoop, half because it’s all he has for now). Ryan’s smart, Miguel knows he’ll figure it out.

*

It takes seven more weeks for Ryan to show up, but Miguel is almost sure he will, and besides, he rather likes it there. When Ryan _does_ show up though, Miguel almost doesn’t recognize him: Ryan’s hair is longer, darker, it keeps getting in his face, he’s lost his freckled tan, and he’s cleaned up nicely. _Very_ nicely: he’s got new clothes, perfectly fitted black jeans that show off his long legs, a white shirt with the top unbuttoned that immediately makes Miguel want to bite his neck, and a leather jacket and stylish glasses. He looks like a handsome, though visually-impaired, bartender or something – anything but an escaped convict. Miguel supposes it’s smart, hiding in plain sight.

Ryan gives him that wide grin of his, _blinding_ , and fuck, it’s a jolt in Miguel’s belly, going straight to his cock. There’s not even a hello needed – Miguel goes up to him and kisses him like they’ve never been apart. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, which is exactly what it feels like.

*

One thing that seems to be common all around the world, is that male instructors generally don’t dive with male customers. It officially has to do with too much body weight and the fall being too fast, but it’s probably mostly because of how much body contact that actually requires. Male customers generally jump with female instructors.

But the pilot is a nice, rather carefree guy, and he has no problem going a bit higher up so that Miguel can jump with _his boyfriend_. (Which Miguel guesses might actually be the truth – and it’s not as weird as he’d have expected it to be.) Ryan’s actually nervous about it; he hides it well, but Miguel can tell. He can also tell Ryan’s thrilled anyway – and probably not just about the imminent sky-diving.

*

“It comes down to one thing,” Miguel tells him – having to yell above the plane’s engine – while securing them together. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Ryan yells back, almost laughing, turning his head to look back at Miguel, grinning. Miguel steals a kiss, chaste but heartfelt, getting a softer smile, all the way deep in Ryan’s eyes. Then, holding him tightly, he maneuvers them over the edge.

Ryan lets out a kind of delighted laughing scream as they go down, and Miguel laughs, keeping his arms around Ryan as long as he can. It’s the best kind of high there is – and that has a lot more to do with _Ryan_ than with the dive itself.

*

Of course, they touch the ground way too quickly.

*

But the high? It _lasts_.

Days and months and years and years.


End file.
